Hope Flies, Hope Tries, Hope Dies
by windscryer
Summary: Thirty-one years ago--to the day--a journey began. When it ends, nothing will ever be the same. Character death. Shules.
1. Prologue

This was actually my first entry for the Shules Ficathon '08 on Psychfic, but before I could publish it the rules were changed and deathfics were banned. So I wrote something else.

But I couldn't _not_ publish this too.

The prompt was 'sleep'.

Disclaimer: Dude. You will _never_ see anything like this on the show. I mean, it's a comedy. And this? Not comedic. Not in the slightest. The logical conclusion then, is that this is not official and I do not own any of this.

I just use fanfiction to seek catharsis because it's cheaper than therapy. :D

* * *

Life.

Beautiful, magical, brilliant, vivid _life_.

Between the ages of twelve and thirty-nine it is often assumed that one considers oneself invincible. The more dangerous your activities and past times, the more this assumption is made.

And, to be fair, it's often a correct one.

I didn't think I was invincible. No one would believe me if I told them that. I had however harbored a hope, secret though it was, that someone else might be.

For if they could be allowed to die, then hope too might be allowed to cease to exist. It might be possible to snuff it out like the flame of a candle.

On September, 26, 2009, I saw hope die.

And I was forever changed.


	2. Chapter 1

The day began normally enough.

I awoke to my alarm's blaring noise, rose, showered, dressed, and had my customary breakfast.

I left for work at thirteen minutes to nine, this being one of my later day shifts this week. In accordance with good personal security procedures I varied the route of my commute from day to day, never allowing any sort of predictable schedule to be set down that could be cataloged to form the basis of a strategy.

This morning I headed north, driving past the park and the new strip mall being built in what was once the lot for a school building. Big, bright signs advertised the expected—if adjusted several times—grand opening date one month from now.

I arrived at the station exactly on time, striding through the door at a minute to and setting my newspaper and briefcase down at my desk at precisely nine o'clock.

Inhaling deeply, I let the satisfaction of a day well started flow over me. It was sure to take a sharp southerly turn at any moment so I had to enjoy it while I could.

"Lassie!"

Ah yes. There it was. The first of many reasons why I would walk in my front door later tonight and head straight for the freezer and a tub of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey.

Anyone who tells you that Vermont's Finest is only cathartic for weepy women fresh out of a bad relationship is lying to you. Nothing soothes the soul like banana ice cream with walnuts and fudge chunks no matter your gender, emotional state, or reason for needing a pick-me-up.

"Spencer, what are you doing here?" I deliberately pick up a file and start leafing through it. I can't have him thinking he's worth all of my attention.

It's the only way to make him leave.

"Oh, Lassie, don't be a wet sleeping bag at a Boy Scout Jamboree. I'm not here to bug you. I came to see my blushing bride!" He punctuated this with a smile that caused the muscles in my arm to tense and my jaw to flex. Some days it was all I could do to not punch him.

"Well then, why are you standing _here_? Do I look like Detective O'H-" I bit my tongue—nearly literally—as I was forced to realign my world view once more to recent events. After a moment to repeat what my tai chi instructor—not one word on _that_ subject—said about breathing and focusing my mental energy into productive channels, I opened my mouth once more. "She's not here," I said, glancing pointedly at her empty desk. "Obviously. Shouldn't she be with you?"

Spencer smiled.

"No. She came to work by herself. I came to surprise her," he explained, holding up a small box wrapped in shiny paper and tied with a rather intricate bow.

"What is that?" I shouldn't have asked, but the morbid curiosity center of my brain had obviously hijacked my good sense. It was much too early to be expected to deal with Spencer.

"It's her birthday today. Don't want her to think I've forgotten," Spencer said with a quick grin and a shake of the box.

Oh.

Then the full implications hit me.

_Oh._

Uh oh.

I turned away so Spencer wouldn't see the self-flagellation about to commence.

"You might try looking at her desk to see if she's been here. Although I haven't seen her yet."

Shawn frowned slightly, but then shrugged and headed away. From his footsteps I assumed he was following my advice, though all I really cared about was the fact that he wasn't staying here.

Once I was sure he was far enough away to not hear me I cursed softly under my breath.

How had I forgotten?

Never once in four years of partnership had Juliet forgotten my birthday.

Thankfully she kept it low key after that first disaster of an attempt to celebrate, but the day was always marked by something special. Usually more than one thing.

A bag of my favorite coffee beans on my desk, a freshly-brewed single cup waiting for me when I arrived. An order of my favorite food from the local Thai restaurant that would mysteriously appear at lunch time—and possibly a second meal from the rib joint by my house for dinner if things ran that late.

Last year my badge vanished the day before much to my consternation. I spent all day looking for it.

It reappeared in a drawer the next morning, shined to the point of being a danger to bystanders when I was near a light source.

And every year when I got home there was a huge German chocolate cupcake—again, my favorite—with a single candle in it sitting on a note in a familiar, precise script.

_Happy Birthday, Carlton._

It was never signed, but it didn't have to be.

I knew who it was from and I knew it was sincere.

I hadn't done too badly in the birthday department myself.

Okay, so my gifts were usually more along the lines of letting her take the first crack at a suspect in interrogation, or actually listening to her when she babbled on about the topic of the day during our commuting between various crime scenes and department resources like the morgue and the records' vault at city hall.

I even let her pick where we would eat lunch on that special day.

Yeah, I know. I suck at presents. I'm sure that had _nothing_ to do with Tori leaving me.

. . .

Anyway.

It was the thought that counted, right? And she always seemed happy enough.

In my defense, we had celebrated her _wedding_ not two weeks ago.

I was still reeling from that, of course, and besides, wasn't it a bit soon to be making a fuss over anything? How much more cake and how many more presents did she _need_?

I made a mental note to do/buy/think of something before the day was over, then sat down and got to work.

I was slogging my way through the four inch stack of paperwork that had built up in my inbox over the weekend, when I glanced up and realized that Spencer was still sitting at O'H-

. . .

_Juliet_'s desk, and that his wi-

. . .

_She_ was nowhere to be seen.

But why?

I debated for a second, the merits of actually initiating a conversation with Spencer weighed against the desire to locate my partner.

"Spencer."

He jumped like he'd been hit in the butt by a rubber bullet and then stood.

"What's up, Lassie?" he asked as he crossed the wide hall splitting the bullpen.

I gave him a careful and intense once over. He had bounced in here with his usual air of being ADD and possibly on speed or meth. Now he looked like vaguely like a puppy that had been abandoned at home for the day while his owner went to work and wasn't _entirely _sure that she would come back for him. I wouldn't be at all surprised to hear him start whimpering pathetically or to find out later on that he'd chewed up something of hers.

"Are you o-" I shook my head. I didn't really want to know that. And if I did I certainly didn't want _Spencer_ to know that I did. "Did you try her cellphone?"

"Yeah. She's not picking up." He scooped an empty coffee mug, a paperweight, and the stapler off my desk.

I arched an eyebrow.

He stared at them for a moment as if unsure how they'd come to be in his possession, then took a half step back and began to juggle them.

What the . . .

"Spencer?" I asked, my voice taking on the quality of one talking to either a small child with a gun or a fully grown—and completely _insane—_adult with a bomb.

"She should have beaten me here, Lassie," Spencer said as he continued to juggle. He'd started with a simple circular toss between hands, but mid-sentence switched to a slightly more complex alternating toss from hand to hand, the third item rising and falling in front of his face as it arced back and forth.

"I left after she did and, though traffic wasn't bad, I went slow and took a scenic route, just to make sure I didn't beat her." There was another switch mid-sentence as he began a somewhat impressive pattern that involved throwing the items straight up and down, his hands the only things moving back and forth to catch and toss in sequence.

"She ate breakfast at home—in bed—so she shouldn't have stopped for anything. She should _be_ here, Lassie," he said, his voice becoming more agitated, though his hands remained steady as he began crossing his hands over each other to keep the stapler, mug, and paperweight in their vertical columns.

He was beginning to attract an audience, both the rising pitch and volume of his voice and his little circus act bringing eyes and spectators our way.

"She won't answer her phone."

Without missing a beat one hand darted out and snagged my badge from the corner of the desk where I'd set it down.

The four items began a looping journey over and under each other as his hands stayed close to waist level, making only small circles to intercept the falling objects and propel them back up into the air.

"She wouldn't just vanish without telling someone where she was going," he insisted.

"Mr. Spencer?"

Oh good. Karen was here. She'd sort this out.

Except Spencer was ignoring her.

Another paperweight joined the first and now he had all five objects whirling through the air, though they had to go up higher in order to give him the time he needed to catch and release the others.

My coffee mug was _not_ going to survive this. I just knew it.

And I really liked that mug, too. I sighed.

"Why doesn't she answer her phone?" he asked.

"Mr. Spencer, why don't you-"

My phone rang and Shawn froze into a statue.

My coffee mug did make it, being fortunate enough to be the object he had in hand at the time.

My stapler exploded on impact with the ground, staples and little bits of the plastic casing flying everywhere. The metal paperweight took a chunk out of the floor when it landed. My badge hid the ground with a soft thud since it hit leather side down.

My crystal paperweight however, did not fare so well.

It hit the ground and shattered.

Spencer stared at it in shock, his eyes wide, his face pale.

No one moved for a long moment.

Then the phone rang again and startled me out of the stupor that my paperweight's demise had caused.

I picked it up as Spencer whispered something I didn't quite catch.

He was pale as a ghost and looked about as strong as an incorporeal being would be.

Unless the movies were right and being dead made you capable of throwing objects that in life you couldn't have pushed around to save your life.

His eyes were fixed on the phone, his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably as his breath came in short little panting gasps.

"Hello?" I asked, wary of who—or what—exactly was supposed to be on the other end.

"Carlton?"

It was a whisper, and a tense one at that.

"O'H-" I cursed. "Juliet?"

Spencer tensed further it seemed, and that made me furrow my brow.

Wasn't he just complaining that she hadn't called?

"I can't talk long. They're searching the building right now and they're sure to find me soon."

"What? Who's searching what building?"

A strangled whimper escaped Spencer and I turned away so he wouldn't distract me.

"I'm at the Wells Fargo on Anacapa. There are seven of them, semi-automatic weapons, mostly Uzis, though the leader has a P-90. I haven't seen anything like a bomb, but I didn't get the best look before I ducked and ran for cover."

"What the he-" I started to demand.

She cursed and my blood ran cold as the call abruptly ended.

I stared at the phone in my hand that buzzed with an indifferent dial tone.

A second whimper pulled my attention away.

"Jules," Spencer breathed out painfully.

Then he turned and ran for the front door.

I could only stare as my mug—the one survivor of Shawn Spencer's frenetic-yet-controlled panic attack—dropped to the ground, hitting the floor and erupting into a shower of ceramic shards on impact.

"Detective Lass-" was all Karen got out before I too turned and bolted for the front door.

Spencer had a head start, but I couldn't afford to lose and so desperation gave me wings.

Before I cleared the front door though I had enough sense to demand SWAT be assembled and sent to the Wells Fargo around the corner.

I don't know if they heard me or if they could make sense of what I'd said. I didn't care much right that second.

I was gone.


	3. Chapter 2

By the time we got there it was over.

Mostly.

I caught up to Spencer as he fought the current of pedestrian traffic on the corner of Figueroa Street and Anacapa.

He glanced over at me, but said nothing as I paced him.

The sidewalk was thick with spectators, but there was a wide berth that extended a few feet beyond the overhang of the building, the crowd lining up as though there were actually barricades in place.

We arrived just in time to hear a gunshot.

Spencer jerked and for one brief moment I thought he had been shot.

But no, the windows of the bank were intact.

I've often said he was an idiot, though that usually meant I was annoyed by the fact that he was right.

But right then he did what had to be the dumbest thing I'd seen in over a decade on the force.

He ran for the front doors of the bank.

I cursed and drew my weapon, running after him, praying I reached him before he got there.

I didn't.

It didn't matter.

He reached for the handle, touching it just as a body impacted the other side, throwing it open and slamming him to the ground.

Seven men with masks on ran past, mostly ignoring us except for the last one who pointed his P-90 at us. He yelled something about not chasing them as he ran backwards for a few feet, then spun back and joined the rest of his men piling into a black panel van at the curb, the crowd parting like the Red Sea for Moses.

The threat was wasted on Spencer.

Before the engine roared and the tires squealed he was up again, running into the bank.

I was torn for a moment, between pursuing the suspects and hunting down Spencer.

But I didn't have a vehicle so I settled for grabbing my cell and calling the information in as I entered the bank.

It didn't take long for me to find him.

Terrified witnesses were huddling against the walls and the teller counter, the shock of surviving an armed bank robbery having not quite sunk in yet.

In the middle of the room was Shawn, his posture suggesting his knees had given out on him.

He was curled over a supine form, murmuring something softly.

I didn't have to ask who it was.

Some part of my brain was still functioning enough to tell dispatch to include an ambulance in the crew being sent, then I hung up.

I didn't want to move, didn't want to see, but my legs apparently had different ideas.

I did move into a position to see, but not closer.

If I believed in psychics, I'd have said that Shawn was projecting some kind of barrier that prevented me from intruding on his private moment.

When I had moved enough to see, I stopped breathing.

Juliet lay in a pool of her own blood—a pool that was growing far too quickly—her head cradled on Shawn's lap.

The entry wound was obvious, the red of her blood expanding outward like a blooming rose in time-elapse from underneath Shawn's hand.

He was still murmuring softly, the exact words lost, though I could probably guess what they were.

_Hold on. Everything's going to be okay. Don't leave me. Help is on the way. Stay with me._

_I love you._

Her mouth moved, but all that escaped was a gurgle and her spine arched at the same time before she coughed, more blood painting her lips.

"Shhh," Shawn said, loud enough to be heard. "I know. You save those words for me, okay? I don't need to hear them, but when you're okay I'll gladly listen to you say them over and over. Okay?"

She reached a shaking hand up to his face and he grabbed it mid-air, guiding it the rest of the way, folding it inside his hand and then kissing the knuckles.

"You just hold onto me, okay, Jules? You just hold on."

She mouthed something, not trying to speak, just going through the lip motions.

I don't know what she said, but it really wasn't for me.

And it didn't really matter a heartbeat later . . . her last.

She went limp.

Shawn froze.

"No," he said softly.

"No!" he added with more volume.

"_NOOOOOOO_!" he screamed.

The witnesses jumped, a few sobbed audibly.

And then the door burst open to admit Karen and more officers, EMTs and SWAT in the mix.

Great timing, guys. Absolutely fantastic.

Karen called my name.

I turned and walked away.


	4. Chapter 3

I was put on administrative leave effective immediately.

I argued for all of twenty minutes that I wanted to help find the guys that did this, the ones that killed my partner.

The ones that stole Juliet from me and from Shawn.

She said no.

I walked away again.

Somehow I found myself at the Psych office as the last of the light was fading from the crimson sunset on the Pacific, sitting in my car staring at the window where a single light burned behind blinds.

I had no idea why. What did I intend to do here?

Hire Shawn to find them?

With a snort I went to turn the car back on, but stopped.

He couldn't do it officially.

But really, when had that ever stopped him?

Before I could change my mind I was out of the car.

What I was going to do would not be good for my record. I may not be able to come back from my enforced vacation if I did this.

I didn't care. Screw my record.

I walked up to the front door and saw the neatly lettered sign that said that the office was closed indefinitely.

I ignored it.

I went into the back, wondering if I would find Shawn in the middle of a séance trying to talk to Juliet.

The thought stopped me cold.

What if he hadn't been lying? What if he was able to commune with the dead?

What if she was here?

The moment passed and I shook it off, moving forward with a determined clench to my jaw.

It wasn't Spencer.

It was Guster.

He jumped and looked up at my entrance.

"Detective Lassiter," he said quietly.

He'd been crying, I could see that from here, even in the faint light. His voice was raw and thick, also betraying his emotional state.

"Where-"

"I don't know."

Gus looked down at the picture in his hands. He was in the middle of packing it seemed, though my quick glance around the room showed it was only an object here or there, not everything.

Memories of Juliet I could only assume.

I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat, coughing once to make sure it went down and stayed there.

"I don't expect to see him for some time to be honest with you, Detective."

Was psychicness catching?

"Will you be around?"

I don't know why I asked it. Didn't know I was planning to until I heard it come out of my mouth.

"Yeah," Gus said, laying the frame in the box before him. "I don't . . . Santa Barbara is my home. I'll miss her. I will. But I can't just . . . She wouldn't want this to . . ." His face twisted and he looked down again.

I nodded. I understood perfectly.

It was why I hadn't hopped on a plane to wherever I could get a ticket to already.

Leaving wouldn't help.

Not me or Guster anyway.

I suspected Shawn was already in Nevada, though not for much longer.

"So will you close-"

"No. He'll come back. He may want to keep going or he may not." Guster shrugged. "I don't know. But it's his choice to make, not mine. Whatever he decides . . . I'll be there with him."

I nodded again.

I turned to leave.

"Detective?"

I didn't turn back.

"What?"

There was a long moment of silence, then, softly, "Nothing."

I stayed one more heartbeat, then left.


	5. Chapter 4

I pulled up in front of Henry's house and turned off my car.

I sat there for a few moments too.

This was a long shot.

A very long shot.

Shawn was probably in Arizona by now.

But I had to try.

I knocked on the door and waited until it was opened.

"Carlton," Henry greeted me quietly. His breath smelled of whiskey.

I had a sudden empathy for an alcoholic who walks past a bar and reconsiders going to his AA meeting that night.

"Henry."

"He's not here."

Does the psychic gene come from Shawn's mother or father? I contemplate it for a few seconds, but only because I desperately don't want to acknowledge the answer I've been given to the question I didn't ask.

"Go home, Detective. Go find yourself a new hobby. You'll need it or you'll go crazy while they wait to let you work again. And if you go crazy they'll never let you back in."

I continue to stare until the door is gently, but firmly, shut in my face.

And then I turn around and take his advice.


	6. Chapter 5

I spend two days sleeping. Juliet's funeral is on Saturday.

I have one more day to sleep through.

The thud of the newspaper against the door makes me blink.

I consider getting up.

Decide not to.

Stare at the wall.

Decide that if I'm not going back to sleep I might as well get up.

I retrieve the newspaper more out of habit than desire.

Slip the rubber band off because it's in my hands and I seem to have developed something of a nervous tic over the last few days.

I can't keep my hands still.

That doesn't quite explain why I open the paper.

When I move again the square of sun coming through the front door has shifted upwards by at least a few inches.

And still I can't quite comprehend what I'm seeing.

My eyes scan the front page headline story, skimming over the pictures.

A black panel van pulled up in front of the station, parking right in front of the steps.

The horn was sounded for several minutes until a couple of officers came out to investigate, Karen among them.

At her appearance the driver's side door opened.

Shawn stepped out.

Tossed a ring of keys to Karen.

Walked to the side door and pulled it open revealing a bench seats and part of the one behind it.

Three faces looked at the open door. The clink of combination hand-and-ankle-cuffs filtered out as another face moved into view from the next bench back from the door.

Shawn gestured at the open door in a presentational way.

And walked away.

On the ring were two keys. The ignition key for the van. And a cuff key.

The suspects were being processed and would be prosecuted for armed robbery and murder two.

A bittersweet smile crept over my face.

"Atta boy, Spencer."


	7. Chapter 6

The wake was expected, depressing, unavoidable.

The visit from Shawn—after everyone else had left, when it was just me and her and a last chance to tell her that she did a good job and that I was proud of her—was not so much the same.

All the things I had thought about saying to him were lost in that moment.

He walked up to her, more static than I'd ever seen him.

"She looks like she's sleeping," he commented.

I had to look away.

"Spencer."

He ignored me.

I wasn't _actually_ sure he knew I was there.

"I like the shirt. It was a nice choice."

He bent and placed a kiss on her lips.

"Goodbye, Jules. Miss you."

He turned and left as quietly as he'd come.

I stopped him just before he reached the door.

"Thank you," I blurted before it was too late. "For catching them. I . . ."

_Wanted to. Needed to. Failed to._

Silence settled in the room like a fog bank.

Time might have actually stopped.

"She deserved better," he said, his head turned just enough that I could make out the words. "But I- I couldn't give it to her. This was all I could do."

He left.

I was alone.


	8. Chapter 7

Saturday morning was bright and cheery.

Inappropriate for a funeral, but not for the person being remembered.

And she was remembered in style.

The parade through the streets. (All of them are a blur. I know I walked them, but I couldn't tell you the route or even if there was anyone else there.)

The gun salute. (I don't quite remember firing the rifle, but my gloves smell of gunpowder so I must have.)

The speeches. (The mayor droned on for an hour. I have no idea what he said. Juliet would have blushed I'm sure even though the mayor probably doesn't even know who she is beyond the blurb his office prepared based on her service record.)

The burial. (I don't remember any of this.)

I do know Guster was there. As was Henry.

Shawn was too, though I don't know if anyone else knew it.

The press commented on his absence, or so I was told later.

They just weren't looking in the right place.

I only spotted him by accident when he happened to be in the line of my thousand mile stare and moved.

Or maybe not so much accident.

He was sitting on a tree branch. A flash of light reflected off of what I can only assume were binoculars.

I wondered briefly if he had a microphone on Guster.

He stilled after that short revelatory bout of fidgeting, vanishing from my sight.

The final words were said and her family was allowed to say their last goodbyes.

Under the sound of her mother crying I heard the soft rumble of a motorcycle engine being revved.

If I had to guess I would say it was probably a Norton 750 Commando.

The sound faded away, apparently having been missed by everyone else.

I wondered if the same would be said of the man who had vanished along with it.


	9. Chapter 8

I never saw Shawn Spencer again.

I visited Juliet a couple of times a year—every year.

Her birthday—a day that marked both her birth and her death. My birthday. Christmas. Easter. The odd Saturday that I had off and was feeling particularly melancholy.

And one Halloween, though that was more impromptu than intentional since some kids were causing trouble in the cemetery and I was on duty. After we chased them off I stopped by since I was there and . . .

I wasn't the only one to visit. Guster came on occasion, too.

We never spoke when we met there, though we were cordial enough when we happened upon each other elsewhere.

Someone else too, though according to Gus he was all over the country again, postcards with obscure mailing locations that would show up every once in a while proving his nomadic journey had yet to end.

But it was certainly Shawn who left a single pale lavender rose laying along the top of her headstone, a note tucked underneath that said in his messy scrawl simply: _I miss you._


	10. Epilogue

On September, 26, 2009, I saw hope die.

And I was forever changed.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Please leave a review and let me know how you felt about it.


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